


President Darling

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Actual Smut, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bodyguard!Eames, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Crack, I stole QueenThayet's tags, I think I have to add Romance to the tags now, M/M, Mutual Pining, Political AU, President!Arthur, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-21 20:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11952099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Inauguration Day should be the best day of newly elected President Arthur Levine's life, and it is, but for very different reasons that he would have assumed. It's all thanks to an attempt on his life and a shockingly attractive secret service agent.





	1. The first day

**Author's Note:**

> Deinvati, Renn, QueenThayet, Brookebond and Fiamac are 100% to blame for this.
> 
> Many thanks to Deinvati for the beta/cheerread!

The inaugural ceremony had been long, cold, and for some reason, Arthur thought to himself, somewhat anticlimactic. That was, until the attempt on his life. Being suddenly pinned underneath the most gorgeous man he’d ever seen was definitely the highlight of the day Arthur had officially become the Leader of the Free World. 

He ought to send those Neo-Nazis fuckers a thank you card. (He refused on principle to call them the ‘alt-right’ - accurate language was one of the foundational pillars of President Levine’s platform.)

“Are you alright, darling?” 

Arthur blinked up uncomprehendingly at the lush mouth uttering terms of endearment to him, the long eyelashes fluttering over meltingly soft grey eyes. Darling, so soon?

Oh no, that was his name. His codename was Darling. Fuck, the secret service hunk had made him forget his own _codename_. Well, someone had just tried to end his life on the National Mall in front of millions of people, most of them holding signs celebrating the first openly gay president. He’d also hit his head on the way down. And he was somewhat out of breath, due to the bulk of the man caging in his entire body. 

It was only natural, in these circumstances, that he might lose sight of one or two things. 

“President Levine, please,” he managed to say, then said, “Can you let me up now? Mr…?”

“Eames,” the man breathed over his face. “You’ll need to stay down here with me until the situation is resolved.” The man’s attention clearly went to his earpiece as he listened to the chatter of his teammates. Arthur definitely didn’t use the opportunity to study the line of his jaw or the thickness of his neck. 

“And how long will that be?” Arthur asked, trying to remember the details of his plan for his first 100 days. He had to focus on something other than the man above him. He had to fire this guy immediately, actually. If only he could find fault with how he was doing his job. 

But before he could come up with any criticisms of the agent’s handling of the crisis, Eames had him up and was blocking his body, herding him back up the stairs and into the Capitol building, where a whole team of agents swarmed around. Then the Presidential transition team took over and Arthur lost sight of Eames for the rest of the day. 

Later that night, as he put on his Presidential pajamas (the ones his sister had bought him on the day he’d announced he was running for president, that had the President Seal printed all over them- who knew such things existed?), he castigated himself for letting a pretty face turn his head at such a critical juncture. He’d almost died, for god’s sake. 

Well, except not, because of Eames. A warm thrill ran through him and he reminded himself sternly that the agent had only been doing his job. 

He really was too handsome to be a secret service agent, Arthur mused as he drifted off to sleep. It was distracting. Oh well, he reasoned as he turned over in the huge soft bed, it wasn’t likely to be a problem. It wasn’t like he’d been seeing Eames all the time, after all - 3200 secret service agents served at the President’s pleasure. There would be plenty of agents protecting him, no need to worry that he would get inappropriately attached to one in particular. 

He could always have him transferred if necessary.


	2. Day 181

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to PoorWendy for the beta on this chapter!

Arthur threw the paper down on the desk and turned to Ariadne. “Does he have to be in every single picture taken of me?” 

Ariadne bent over to peer down at the front page of the _New York Times_. “He’s not…. Oh, is that his elbow? How can you even…” she broke off as Arthur twitched the paper out from under her and pointed at the elbow angrily. 

“It’s that ochre jacket he always wears. I’ve instructed him - no, _ordered_ him- not to wear it. He always wears it. Is that … treason, Ariadne? That seems like a high crime and misdemeanor to me. Or at least gross insubordination. And why does he always have to stand so close to me? He is in _literally_ every picture!”

“Calm down, sir,” Ariadne said distractedly as she rifled through the piles of paper covering the huge desk. The Oval Office was a hell of a lot messier with Arthur as its occupant than it had been when Obama was in charge. She spread a few other papers in front of her. “He’s not in this one!” she crowed after a few minutes, minutes which Arthur spent muttering to himself about whether the CBO would allow him to order all Secret Service Agents to wear matching Zegna suits.

“Sir! I said, I found one he’s not in,” Ariadne huffed, waving it in front of his face.

“I sent him off to shave better that day. He came in with a scruff. A scruff! It’s like he…”

“It’s like he wants your attention, sir,” Ariadne said with a sly smile.

“No, he just… Ari, are you sure I can’t fire Secret Service agents? Don’t they serve at my pleasure?” 

Ariadne looked mildly shifty for a moment. “As your Chief of Staff, I assure you that is not a possibility, sir. There are… regulations, and the union...well, it would be a nightmare. Not worth getting into.”

“But why is he always here?” Arthur said, pacing by the windows, looking out to check that Eames was still outside. With a wink and a cheeky smile, Eames saluted him from where he crouched in the bushes. There had been a bomb threat that morning - not credible, but all threats regarding the White House had to be treated with deadly seriousness. At least he wasn’t wearing that damned jacket, that hideous thing that hugged his shoulders _just so _...__

__No, instead he was wearing a t-shirt that was just a shade too tight around his biceps, and jeans slung low around his hips, just barely covering his ass as he squatted down, peering through leaves that brushed the tops of his cheeks and ruffled his hair. He hefted his gun and sighted it through the branches and Arthur stood on tiptoes trying to see what he might be locking onto. His blood was up and it was all a bit exciting, no surprise that he would be riveted by this spectacle._ _

__“Sir?”_ _

__“What?” Arthur snapped, eyes not leaving Eames’ ass._ _

__“I just… were you done ranting about James?”_ _

__“Eames, Ariadne, his name is Eames and he’s _always_ on duty! For the last six months he’s been assigned to my personal security detail and he never leaves! The overtime alone would be a scandal. It can’t be legal for him to be here constantly! Where does he even sleep? I need you to get to the bottom of it. ” _ _

__Ariadne saluted Arthur sarcastically and sashayed out of the office, scarf trailing behind her._ _

__Arthur pulled himself away from the windows and pushed the newspapers away, determined to focus on the details of the trade negotiation that was happening early the next morning. Suddenly he felt a warm breath on the back of his neck._ _

__“Darling, you really ought to postpone those negotiations until China has a better policy in place for-”_ _

__Arthur jumped back and hit the solid mass of Eames, who had been leaning over his shoulder. “Don’t you--what are you doing in here, Agent Eames?” Arthur said as he stepped back to the desk and turned around, ending up half-sitting on his briefing notes._ _

__“Came to check on you, didn’t I?” Eames smiled and adjusted the gun in his waistband. At this distance, Arthur could smell him, grass and musk._ _

__“I’m perfectly fine, Mr...Agent… Eames,” he concluded lamely, trying not to stare at the trickle of sweat running down Eames’ neck. “You should be doing your job.” He gestured outside with an unconvincing flap of his hand._ _

__“But you’re my job, sir,” Eames said, eyes flickering from Arthur’s eyes to his lips and back, then smirking ever so slightly. “I wanted to see how you were handling the … threat.”_ _

__“What threat?” Arthur breathed, feeling his pulse race._ _

__“The bomb threat, sir?” Eames smiled and leaned over to put one hand on the desk by Arthur’s bum. Arthur startled and stared at Eames like he was about to explode into a million pieces of shrapnel, but Eames just inched his fingers under Arthur’s buttcheek like it was nothing, then yanked out a piece of paper and handed it to Arthur, straightening up and backing away._ _

__“Oh,” said Arthur, blinking. “Yes. That bomb threat, of course. I’m… fine, thank you for your concern.”_ _

__Eames came to attention and saluted for real this time. “Your safety is my top priority, Darling,” he said, then leaned over to flick a speck of lint off Arthur’s suit jacket. Their eyes met, then Eames backed away yet again, did a funny little bow and walked out of the office._ _

__“I think I’m supposed to dismiss you,” Arthur murmured to himself as Eames shut the door behind him. Only then did it occur to him that Eames had called him by his codename again. “Goddamn it,” Arthur said, a smile spreading across his face._ _


	3. Day 450

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, please forgive all errors, inconsistencies, overuse of adverbs and general failures of the American educational system.

Arthur could not believe he had allowed himself to be conned into this. He blamed the ongoing furor over Eames’ daring rescue of Arthur from a sinking car—a neo-Nazi had swerved across the double line into the Presidential cavalcade as it was crossing a bridge and Arthur’s limo had plunged into the river. The excitement over the (frankly humiliating) image of a soaked Eames carrying Arthur to safety from the frigid waves hadn’t died down in the intervening months. 

If anything, the public response had gotten more fevered over time; there were t-shirts, mugs, magnets and endless paraphernalia showing Eames with Arthur in the bridal-carry, there was #PresidentDarling, they apparently had their own “smush name.” Even after it was explained to him, Arthur refused to comprehend what a smush name was and promptly forgot it, permanently. There were some humiliations not to be borne. 

The social media frenzy had driven Mal, the White House Communications Director, to hire a PR firm to handle the situation. And _their_ cursed advice had been to send the single, gay President on a series of what amounted to blind dates, for the purpose of calming down rampant and disruptive speculation regarding him and Eames. 

The neatest thing to do, Arthur thought for the thousandth time, would be to transfer Eames to another detail—or simply fire him for one of his many, many refusals to adhere to Secret Service protocol. His stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought. 

Ah well, it was a moot point. Ari continued to assure him that there was nothing they could do; Eames' capturing the attention of the public with his rugged good looks, rakish smile and heroic bravery was hardly legal grounds for dismissal. The mystery remained as to why Eames was on duty nearly twenty-four seven, but Ari reported that Mr. Charles, the Director of the Secret Service, was not amenable to explanations. All he would offer is that Eames had an impeccable record in the Navy Seals and was unparalleled in his devotion to the Office of the President. 

Which was hard to believe when Eames was stealing food off his plate. 

“Please don’t drip buerre blanc on my jacket, Agent Eames,” Arthur muttered out the side of his mouth, “and also, why are you eating my dinner?” 

“Checking for poison, sir. I don’t like the cut of this fellow’s jib.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes at the turn of phrase; Eames was entirely too much, most of the time. “You’re not my taster,” he said, suppressing a chuckle into a sigh of irritation. “Presidents don’t have tasters.”

“You do,” replied Eames shortly as his hand dove in for another haricot vert. “Lucky you, Darling.” 

Arthur felt himself go hot under the collar. It was monumentally unfair that that damned codename, uttered in Eames’ rumbling voice, never seemed to lose its potency. 

He poked dispiritedly at his duck magret, waiting for Robert to come back from the restroom. Robert Fischer, renewable energy magnate, was a nice enough guy, with his pretty blue eyes and pouty lips, but something about him set Arthur on edge. Was it the accent? The cheekbones? The cheesy Brooks Brothers ensemble? 

Arthur heard a muffled “excuse me” behind him, and then felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Fischer looming above him, his hand still resting on Arthur’s body, squeezing slightly. “Sorry that took so long, I had to take a call, you know how it is,” he said blandly. Then he pulled his chair around to sit right next to Arthur. 

“What you were saying, before, about your father. I entirely empathize,” Fischer said in a confidential, insinuating tone. “Mine had no use for me, either. But look at where we are now,” he finished, with a falsely innocent smile. Arthur felt a hand graze his knee and his skin crawled, and then everything was a blur of movement that ended with Fischer on the floor, Eames on top of him and yelling for backup.

Arthur found himself hustled out of the restaurant, the familiar flashes of cellphone cameras popping from all corners of the stuffy room. All in all, he realized, he was relieved. 

\---

“Your coffee, sir,” a faceless assistant muttered as they placed the Chemex and cup at Arthur’s elbow. It was 6 o’clock in the morning and Arthur was at the start of another long day of managing perceptions and forging temporary and strained alliances between the myriad and intractable factions of Congress. He waited the requisite four minutes with an increasing sense of desperation, then poured himself a cup and sat back with a sigh. 

“Any left for me?” drawled a familiar British voice and Arthur turned to see Eames already reaching for the carafe. 

“Help yourself,” he said, and thought he heard “I intend to,” and then the mass of Eames’ frame was pressing against his shoulder as he picked up the coffee to pour it into a used Starbucks cup. 

“What time were you up?” Arthur asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Constant vigilance,” Eames murmured, gazing down at Arthur with a fond smile. “I was up all night dealing with the fallout of that… date.” 

“Hm. Yes. What happened there, Agent Eames?” Arthur said as he pretended to check his planner. “I thought things were going well.” 

“Did you?” Eames asked, draining his cup and setting it down by Arthur’s hand, turning to perch on the desk, firm thigh hot along Arthur’s forearm. “I saw a glint of something in his hand. Could have been a… knife.”

“A butter knife,” Arthur said, trying to sound severe and put-out. It was a dismal failure.

“We take no chances with the President’s life,” Eames said. 

“Well, my sincere thanks for saving me from that utter bore,” he said, leaning back in his chair and bringing his coffee to his lips, meeting Eames’ amused gaze with his own. 

“Anything for my Darling,” he said, taking the cup out of Arthur’s hand and draining that, too, before walking out of the office. 

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed as thoughts of inquests and star chambers flashed through his head. 

It would almost be worth it.


	4. Day 690

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the timeline via the chapter titles... giving myself a little more room to develop the story. This chapter is again unbeta'd and basically unedited. If you see anything egregious, do be a dear and lemme know!

“The situation is getting worse, sir,” Ariadne said with a worried shake of her head. “There have been three assassination plots foiled against you this week alone.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you,” Arthur said. “Luckily, I have the world’s most persistent and omnipresent secret service agent shadowing my every step.”

Ariadne raised an eyebrow as a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Still, sir, I think it would be wise, and Mr. Charles agrees with me, to beef up security.” 

Arthur manfully resisted the sudden mental image of his most devoted security professional beefing up in the gym. A vision which unfortunately had a high degree of verisimilitude, based on the glimpse he'd gotten of Eames doing crossfit in the White House fitness facilities the previous morning. 

“If it would make you feel any better, Ariadne, I’ll start carrying a gun myself.” 

“Leave the gunplay to professionals, Darling,” Eames said briskly as he entered the room to secure it for the fourth time that hour. 

Arthur laughed as he tracked Eames’ efficient but graceful movements around the room. “I was in the Marines, you know. A decorated officer, actually.”

“I’m aware, sir,” and Arthur’s eyes all but fluttered at the sound of one of Eames’ rare honorifics. “But you flew helicopters.”

“I still had to do basic training,” he huffed, playing up his irritation. “You think I don’t know how to handle a gun?” 

Eames looked at him, doubt written all over his ludicrously handsome face. “I think that if you want to start carrying, you’ll need a refresher course. Hm. I know just the place.”

Ari clearly had thoughts about this, thoughts that she attempted to convey to Arthur via very eloquent eyebrow semaphore. Arthur gave her a blank stare and had her clear his afternoon.

And so Arthur found himself at the Machine Gun Nest, a hour away from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, where a red-faced youth apologized profusely for having to require him to sign a waiver. The staff timidly gathered around (Arthur couldn’t help but assume that some of these people had bumper stickers on their trucks supporting his opponent and possibly even denouncing him as a fag) and offered a range of firearms. Eames pulled out a Glock 17, a Heckler & Koch P2000 and some ammunition and said, “We’ll be fine with these,” as he steered Arthur to their lane with a hand at the small of his back.

Arthur smirked to himself at Eames’ evident informational gap—he’d flown helicopters in the Marines, true, but prior to that he’d been a weapons and tactics instructor for aviation logistics. 

This was going to be fun. 

He suffered Eames to assist him in donning some goggles and earmuffs, one large hand trailing along his cheek a bit lingeringly, but no one was around to see and Arthur wasn’t feeling inclined to analyze it too much. Arthur positioned himself at the bench and held out his hand. 

“The Glock, please, Agent Eames,” he said, keeping his face as blank as possible. Eames handed it over, looked down and then slowly back up at Arthur, then came around behind him to lift his arms into position, pressing snugly all along Arthur’s back and causing an instant hot flush all over Arthur’s body.

“This isn’t like shooting a rifle,” he murmured in Arthur’s ear, almost touching the shell of it with his lips. “There’s less to balance against, so the recoil can be more forceful than you expect. I’ll just stand here in case.” He punctuated this by bringing his arms a little more closely in alignment with Arthur’s, resulting in an unbroken line of contact between them that spanned nearly the entirety of Arthur’s backside and Eames’ front. There was no mistaking that Eames was hard. 

Arthur almost hated to ruin the moment, but when the target hove into view, his training and experience kicked in and he unloaded his rounds in his traditional rapid-fire manner, clearing a hole in the direct center of the chest within seconds. 

There a was a beat of silence, and then Eames stepped back and said, “Mr. President, I am impressed.” Arthur preened for a second, but the moment was ruined when Eames then burst into laughter. He swung around, frowning, with the gun pointed at the ground, to see Eames’ doubled over. 

“I’m—haha—I’m _so_ sorry to spoil your big moment, but- did you really think there was any part of your military career I didn’t know backwards and forwards?” Eames straightened up and caught his breath, still grinning like an idiot. Arthur found himself grinning too, and when their eyes met with a warm thrill of recognition, he knew that he was fucking done for. He shook his head, more at his thoughts than at Eames. 

“So, given that now we both know that we’ve both known how terrifyingly proficient you are with a handgun, and therefore never needed the practice, why _are_ we here?” Eames said, drawing closer again, a challenge in his tone.

Arthur leaned against the wall and studied the gun in his hands, trying to get control of himself. “We both needed to let off some steam, I think,” and when he looked back up at Eames, he nearly melted from the heat in Eames’ eyes. “Professionally speaking, of course,” he added hastily. _Christ, what a pantywaist I can be,_ he thought to himself.

“Of course, Darling,” Eames said, boring holes into Arthur’s head with the force of his gaze. He turned and loaded his P2000, then took aim at the target, obliterating it faster than Arthur could comprehend. 

\---

Later that night, Arthur lay in bed, simultaneously kicking himself for backing down and congratulating himself for resisting the most compelling man he’d ever met. He couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of that body molded to his, the way it had felt to be in his arms - again, he thought, remembering the inauguration, then the rescue from the sinking car. This was insane, he thought wildly, kicking off the covers and getting out of bed. He had to _do_ something. He couldn’t keep on this way—the public wasn’t buying the decoy dates and he’d fed them more ammunition (pun intended) with today’s ill-conceived caper. 

The problem was, the something he wanted to do was the exact opposite of the something he needed to do.


	5. Day 691

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this tiny beast of a chapter is unbeta'd, so pray ignore and/or forgive minor errors. Major errors should be reported to the management.

Sleep was not coming. Arthur couldn’t stop circling around his conundrum - what he wanted to do versus what he should do. The latter was crystal clear; he needed to get to the bottom of this Agent Eames business. Arthur was no fool-- he knew how unusual it was for one secret service agent to perpetually be guarding the president. Even if the news outlets hadn’t reported on that fact extensively, he himself knew it because he’d been preparing for the presidency since he turned 12. Something was going on there, and he needed to push Mr. Charles and find out what exactly it was. He couldn’t believe he’d let the situation go on as long as it had. 

But it had been easier to accept the excuses his chief of staff has been giving him, easier not to look too closely into the anomaly, because he’d much rather be looking at Eames’ broad shoulders and plush mouth. 

And his voice, and his hands, and the complicated look of desire and hope and fear in his eyes whenever he and Arthur got too close, which was practically a daily occurrence now. Arthur’s hand snuck under the drawstring of his pajamas as he semi-deliberately allowed thoughts of Eames’ assets to fill his mind. He finally let himself process the feel of that cock against the crack of his ass, pressed tightly enough against him that it spread his cheeks apart. Imagining the shape of it, the taste of it, was enough to send him into heat, basically, and while he normally took care of himself in the shower in brisk, efficient fashion, the level of arousal he was feeling now wouldn’t be sated by a no-frills jerk-off session.

Arthur pulled his hand away from his twitching erection and got out of bed, mentally locating his favorite assistant for nights like this, when rubbing one out wasn’t going to do the trick. He felt like his body was fire, he needed something more, something inside him. The pressures of the office meant that he normally had little time to indulge this need, which meant he hadn’t seen the vibrator in a while. Evidently, long enough to forget where he’d stashed it. 

He slid his pants off and palmed his dick, then had to stop because it was inhibiting his ability to focus on the task at hand. Fuck, he was so aroused he couldn’t think straight. Was it in his night table drawer? No, but the lube was. He grabbed it and accidentally squeezed some out onto his forearm. Rather than let it go to waste, he scooped it up with his other hand and got on his knees, reaching behind himself to slick up his cleft and nudge the tip of his finger in. Just to take the edge off. It felt so good, he found himself sliding the whole thing up there, then taking himself in hand again. 

Fuck, what if this was Eames’ finger inside him, Eames’ hand stroking him off? He reviewed the mental images he’d stored up, of Eames’ deft, long-fingered hands handling a gun, holding a cup of coffee, stealing food off his plate and sliding it between those fucking obscene lips. His head tipped back on a long moan, and soon enough there were two fingers inside, thrusting in and out as his hips bucked into his closed fist. 

But it wasn’t enough. With a frustrated groan, he got up and flicked the lights on and tried to ignore the inane way his cock bobbed as he looked under the bed, in the drawer of the other night stand, and then with increasing desperation in each of the twelve hundred drawers of the chest between the south facing windows. It wasn’t there. 

Maybe he’d hidden it in one of the closets? One of the _hidden_ closets, he reminded himself - there was a reason he used an armoire (it wasn’t in the armoire either). Cursing himself for choosing the busy Cole  & Sons wallpaper that had seemed so chic at the time, he realized that the seams of the camouflaged closets were literally impossible to find in the dim light with that pattern obscuring them. After several infuriating minutes spent feeling along the walls for cracks, he uttered a garbled string of profanity and looked one more time under the bed. 

There it was, pristine in its little box, still with the plastic sleeve protecting it, just humbly lurking in a dusty corner by the bedpost, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. The little fucker. 

Arthur fumbled it out and scrambled onto the bed, flicking the lights out and grabbing the lube again. Stretched out on his back, he brought his slicked fingers back to his hole and teased himself open again so he could take in the width of the vibrator. His erection had flagged during the search but came back to life rapidly as he gave himself over to visions of Eames disrobing in front of him, pinning him with his gaze and then his hands. Arthur’s hole was dripping now with lube and stretched enough, he thought, so he turned on the vibrator (batteries still working! yes!) and pressed it against himself, a long moan escaping him as he closed his eyes to see Eames above him, pushing in. “Oh fuck! Eames…” he sighed, and the tip slid in, a heavenly frenzy of sensation.

The sound of the door opening startled Arthur into dropping the toy on the sheets between his spread legs. 

“Darling?”

 _Oh shit, oh fuck, oh no,_ gabbled Arthur’s overstimulated brain uselessly. 

Arthur prayed it was dark enough in the room that Agent Eames couldn’t see the position he was in, and further prayed that he didn’t turn on the-- fuck. The room flared with light. He had just enough presence of mind to yank the corner of the sheet over himself. 

Agent Eames was halfway through the door, a confused and concerned expression on his damnably lovely face. 

“What did you come in here for?” Arthur asked stiffly, clutching the sheets to his sternum, valiantly ignoring the soft buzzing from between his legs. 

“The motion detectors sensed unusual movement for this time of night, so I turned on the mics and heard noises- at first I thought you were having a nightmare, but then it sounded like - an intruder- and you called my name?” 

Eames fell silent and the noise of the vibrator suddenly grew by twenty decibels, or so it seemed. His eyes slid from from Arthur’s face to his groin, where the sheet tented unmistakably. He looked away, a flush of color appearing on his cheeks.

Arthur snuck his hand down between his legs to disable the now-dead-to-him vibrator. _Whisper quiet, my ass._ The silence in the room seemed an almost physical pressure. Eames’ gaze returned to Arthur’s, and where the atmosphere had just been awkward, it was now charged, almost violently so. Arthur didn’t dare move.

“Can I be of assistance?” Eames asked, voice a hushed rumble, his eyes taking in every detail of Arthur’s state - flushed cheeks, wet lips, panting breath. Hard cock underneath 500-threadcount Irish linen sheets so smooth and fine they were almost transparent. Arthur swallowed heavily. God, how he wanted him.

And he couldn’t have him.

He couldn’t look away, though, and Eames’ eyes held Arthur’s with a magnetic pull. Arthur… didn’t exactly nod, but he didn’t exactly _not_ nod, and Eames came fully into the room.

“I might need to investigate,” he said low and soft. “Make sure there’s nothing hiding in here that needs to be… dealt with.”

This was it. Arthur needed to act. He needed to send Eames away. He had to. There was no other option. But fucking hell, his dick twitched and Eames clocked it and then he was on the bed, and Arthur just waited, just waited for the next move. He couldn’t get a full breath, he thought he might explode if Eames touched him. If Eames didn’t touch him. Eames leaned over him, one hand braced next to Arthur’s shoulder on the bed, lowering himself in infinitely small fractions of an inch, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted. It was a dream. A dream come true. A nightmare.

A nightmare for both of them.

Arthur put out a hand, touching Eames’ warm, solid chest, stopping his slow progress. God, he felt so good. So good. Strong and solid and dependable, capable, ineluctable. Inevitable. 

“I can’t,” Arthur said, barely forming the words.

“What?” Eames eyes’ blinked open, his face dazed. 

“I -- we can’t. We can’t.” Arthur scooted up and away from Eames, wrapping the sheet tighter around himself, sitting on the other side of the bed. Facing away so he didn’t have to see Eames’ face. It was fine. It was just a physical thing for him, probably. For some reason, he was attracted to Arthur. Probably had a type, or whatever, but he could get laid by anyone, anytime. It was fine.

He didn’t hear Eames leave, but when he turned around, he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used this reference for writing this scene, if you're confused about the hidden closets:
> 
> http://www.whitehousemuseum.org/floor2/master-bedroom.htm


	6. Day 691, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to horchatita394 for the superfast beta!

The alarm didn’t so much wake Arthur up as confirm for him that he was not going to get any sleep. He shut it off and rolled out of bed, his naked state serving as a reminder of what had nearly transpired last night. Only hours ago. As he turned on the water for his shower, he tried to ignore the nauseated feeling in his stomach at the thought of facing Agent Eames only a short time from now. For the last many mornings of his life, Agent Eames was either the first or second person he spoke to, depending on when Ariadne arrived. 

They’d taken to sharing coffee more often than not, Arthur sat at the huge desk and Eames slowly pacing the perimeter, coming to rest every so often to lean against this or that piece of furniture, but mostly in motion. His slow swagger around the room was soothing now, not intrusive as it had seemed at first. Maybe it was just that Arthur had stopped seeing it as an predator’s prowling and more like the vigilance of a protective… his mind stuttered to a halt. A protective mate, his internal monologue tried to continue, but he silenced it. 

What was he going to say to him this morning? Arthur could think of nothing. He stepped under the spray and tilted his head up, rivulets sluicing down his neck and chest. One or two things occurred to him, actually. Eames must be—Arthur hadn’t really realized that Eames was monitoring him at night as well as in the day. He must… he must have known what Arthur was doing in his room, he was an excellent agent and a very perceptive person. 

The possibility that Eames had been waiting for a moment like the one that had happened last night crossed Arthur’s mind for the first time. Eames had been instantly responsive to Arthur’s use of his name. His cock twitched and he pressed it down, willing it to give him some peace so he could figure out the parameters of the impossible situation he was in. 

Yes, so Eames… Eames wanted him. That was not exactly _new_ information, per se. But there was idle attraction, and then there was … was baiting Arthur to get him to go on a—had that been a _date_? At the shooting range? Arthur’s head spun. His cock was still hard but he paid it no mind as he stepped out of the shower and toweled off, getting dressed in a stupor. 

Eames must have been hoping something would give him an excuse to enter the master bedroom at night, must have been watching and waiting and biding his time. He wasn’t just attracted to Arthur. This went beyond… what exactly was going on, here? 

Arthur’s stomach lurched again, this time in violent regret that he hadn’t let Eames have his way last night. He almost laughed at himself for being so ridiculous, then abruptly sobered. What _was_ holding him back from saying yes, anyway? A scandal? He was the first openly gay president of the United States, how much more scandalous could it get? And half of America, to judge by Twitter, anyway, thought they were sleeping with each other already. 

Maybe it was because he never had come last night, or maybe it was because he hadn’t yet had his morning gallon of pour-over coffee, or maybe it was just that Eames was so much more that a superlative ass and a gorgeous face, but Arthur found himself vaguely and wordlessly forming a plan to capitulate. To give in. To give both of them what they were both so obviously needing. 

An expansive feeling grew in his chest, like being lit up from within, and he recognized it from election night—the sudden and growing conviction that something amazing was about to happen. 

Arthur got down to his office to find that no one was there yet. Huh. A quick glance at his watch informed him that he was a few minutes earlier than normal, so he sat and waited for Tasha to arrive with his coffee and flipped through a packet of security briefings. There were a number of concerning items and time slipped by unnoticed until he looked up to find his pour-over cold and also untouched. Which was odd. 

Normally Eames intercepted the carafe and drank about half of it in one go, but he wasn’t here. Arthur realized that the bulky presence in the corner, which he’d half-consciously noticed and which had made his heart kick into overdrive while he tried to digest some intel on Syria and formulate a non-idiotic opener for “I think I might be in love with you, we should have sex,” was definitely a secret service agent—but was not Eames. 

Confused and more distressed than the situation warranted, Arthur poured himself some cold coffee and rang Ariadne. 

“Sir?” 

“When are you coming in?”

“I’m down the hall, what’s up?”

“I’m… never mind. I’ll see you when you get here.” 

“Aye aye, cap’n,” Ari said and clicked off.

Arthur frowned at the man in the corner, who gave him an uncertain smile and a half-assed salute. 

“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said in light tenor. 

“Good morning, Mr…?” 

“Rodriguez, sir.” 

“Mr. Rodriguez. Pleasure to meet you. Do you…” he trailed off, embarrassed at himself. He’d been about to ask after Eames. Why on earth would this guy know where Eames was? 

“Sir?” The agent took a half-step forward.

“No, nothing, never mind. Thank you.” Arthur frowned at the briefing, tasting the bitterness of the coffee in on his tongue.

Where _was_ Eames? Maybe he was sick. Maybe he’d been working too hard- day and night, apparently, he was likely fatigued. Arthur had a brief flash of visiting Eames… wherever it was that he lived, some tiny apartment in Alexandria, most likely, seeing him laid out on his sofa, pale and tragic. Arthur would apologize for needing so much protection, for sucking the life out of him, and then offer to suck the… he blinked hard and re-focused on the bulletin about the homophobic cleansing in Chechnya. 

Ariadne entered, looking a little pale and tragic herself. She gestured towards the coffee with a raised eyebrow and Arthur nodded, so she poured herself and then winced when she took a sip. 

“You look exhausted,” she said. “What’s going on?” 

Arthur shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to ask after Eames. It was too humiliating, all things considered. 

“Where’s Eames?” she asked, looking around the room. “Oh, hi, Aaron.” She waved at Agent Rodriguez. 

“I don’t know. He hasn’t been in yet.” 

“Huh. That’s weird,” she said as she picked up her cell. She walked across the room and had a muttered conversation, then came back with a strange expression on her face.

“Who was that?” Arthur asked, an unnerving tension forming in his stomach.

“Mr. Charles. Looks like your dreams have come true,” she said, not at looking like this was the case. “Eames has been reassigned.”


	7. Day 784, March 15th 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, please forgive all errors, major and minor. This has been a hell of a week, very sorry for the long delay.

Arthur tried not to be annoyed by the amiable conversation between Aaron and Munazil as they walked behind him. It had been a long day trying to deal with the would-be obstructionists in Congress (hard to obstruct much of anything when one party had the Executive branch and majority control of the Legislature, but Republicans were a resourceful bunch, he would have to hand them that) and Arthur was anxious to follow up on a line of research he had going.

In the three months since Eames had been transferred, Arthur had waffled back and forth innumerable times on whether to use his powers to find out where Eames had gone. On the one hand, Eames had been his constant companion for two years. It would only be natural for him to express interest in, if not outright concern for, his wellbeing. On the other, well. Eames had almost certainly requested reassignment in the wake of Arthur’s rejection of him. 

Arthur inwardly sighed and outwardly waved at a group of schoolchildren who were having a field trip to the Capitol building. In fact, he wasn’t sure that Eames’ reassignment had anything to do with him. He’d relived that night, that moment, a thousand times and never got any closer to reading the remembered look in Eames’ eyes. Had it been a one-off whim, a reaction to a couple of ill-timed and inconvenient erections? 

Or had it been something more?

Back at the Oval Office, Arthur left his enormous desk, which anyone could walk behind and see what he was “working” on, and took his personal laptop to one of the chairs against the wall. He would have just gone up to his study, but with the added security detail occasioned by the recent intensified threats, it was too cramped.

He reassured himself that Ariadne was still holding a conference with her aides and went back to what he privately referred to as his side project, which was trying to get some background on Eames without letting anyone know what he was doing. So far he’d gathered a few facts- born in the UK to American parents who worked at the American embassy. Raised in England until he was 12, then brought to D.C. and sent to St. Albans, from which he was expelled, and then to a public school, from which he’d graduated early but without distinction. There was a slew of minor traffic offenses around that time, culminating in an arrest for shoplifting at the age of 17 that resulted in no charges. Then a few blank years, followed by enrollment at GWU, enlistment and a military career about which Arthur was already apprised but by which he remained impressed. 

These details all felt like bloodless items on a c.v., though, and Arthur craved more personal information. But he had been proudly (and also fearfully) resisting researching Eames via Google, still not ready to see what the wider world had to say about them. 

With slightly shaking hands and one eye on the door, Arthur finally allowed himself to type their...ugh, god… “smush” name into the browser and shut his eyes tight. 

When he worked up the courage to peek, a slew of pics, altered and unaltered, of the daring water rescue assaulted his eyes at the top of the page, but the real insults to dignity were below, in the headlines. 

“Is President Levine Canoodling With This Hot Agent???” subtitled “who could blame him, look at those lips.” He rolled his eyes, deliberately not thinking about those lips.

Oh god, of course there was a Buzzfeed article. “This Agent puts the ‘sexy’ in ‘secret service.’” Arthur gritted his teeth against the fact that actually, there was no “sexy” anywhere in “secret service” and clicked the link in spite of himself.

The text of the article blurred together as his eyes were assaulted by a selfie of a barely-clad man making a porngraphic moue at the camera, while angling the shot down his Adonis-like, tattooed body where his hand reached into his underwear. The worst part of it was that the beat-up trucker hat did nothing to detract from the feral sexuality of the picture. Arthur wanted to slide down his abs like a waterslide and straight into those pants that were held so invitingly open.

And it was definitely Eames. 

“Could this be the sexy secret service agent that’s turned President Levine’s head? One eagle-eyed contributor found this photo on myspace, under the username “At_his_pleasure.” While we don’t know for sure that President Levine’s favorite agent has tattoos, this picture taken after the notorious rescue from a sinking car highlights some interesting “shadows” under his soaked shirt. Of course, it’s difficult to make out most of the chest, as the President has his arm thrown around the agent’s neck in _very_ suggestive manner.” 

Arthur’s face was flaming, he could tell, but as he made to close his laptop, Ariadne burst into the room and her eyes locked onto him, taking his measure and striding over before he could get his hands to work. 

“Oh, so you finally worked up the courage to look, did you?” she smirked at him. The smirk galvanized him into action and the laptop slammed closed, but the damage was done. Ariadne stood over him with hands on hips, her expression unbearably smug. “Is that why you’re sitting here? So no one can see what you’re doing?” She trilled a laugh and then patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” 

\---

The rest of day went by in haze of increasingly stressful meetings and by the time Arthur got back to the master suite, he was exhausted from having to pretend to listen and take seriously the problems of the country when his poor neglected libido was screaming at him to get back online and look at that picture one more time. 

His phone beeped at him and he fished it out of his pants pocket as he flopped on the bed, too tired to undress. Thumbing in the code, he expected to see yet another message from his mother, asking when Eames was coming back. She had no faith in the other agents and was threatening to sue Mr. Charles on the basis of intentional infliction of emotional distress for putting Eames on another assignment. 

Arthur almost dropped his phone when he saw the face pouting at him from the screen. God damn it. Ariadne must have swiped his phone when he’d been talking with the Unitarian Universalist ministers about social justice movements in smaller communities. It had been an unforgivable oversight to give her the passcode. He let himself trace the unbelievable perfection of the ridges of muscle and the tantalizing bit of shadow under which… he tore his eyes away, ashamed of himself and turned-on in equal measure. 

The message was from Ariadne, the meddling bitch. _Check your contacts._ What the hell did that mean? He selected contacts and scrolled through medium-slow, then scrolled back fast. “Eames” has certainly not been on his contact list earlier today. That meddling, wonderful, horrible bitch. He typed back _Et tu, Ariadne?_

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? 

He lay in bed, willing his erection to go down so he could think. This was still a terrible idea. This was still in poor form and while not technically illegal or even immoral, ethically, logistically and strategically an awful, verboten idea. 

Arthur found himself typing _I thought you served at my pleasure_ and hitting send before he could second guess himself. 

_Wrong_ he thought as he lay there for the next twenty minutes. _I now have an eternity in which to second-guess myself._

His phone chimed. It was a message from Eames.

_Darling, it's so good to hear from you. Miss me much?_


	8. Day 785

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to horchatita for the troubleshooting!
> 
> Very sorry for all the formatting errors!

_Miss me much?_

Arthur’s stomach flipped over. How was he supposed to answer that? Yes? All the time? Comprehensively? Before he could even begin to formulate a suave response that made him seem more like the Leader of the Free World and less like a virginal schoolboy, his phone chimed again.

  _What part do you miss most?_

Dear god, there was no good answer to that. Arthur's mind raced but his fingers were frozen in place. His phone chimed again.

_My voice? My smile? My strong arms wrapped around you?_

The real answer was: his voice, but he might take that as an invitation to call and Arthur was quite sure that if he couldn’t handle a few flirty texts, there was no way he’d be able to manage that voice saying insinuating things to him. He was already uncomfortably hard.

 _I feel so exposed without your protection_ , he typed, hoping that this trod the line between friendly joking and mild flirting.

  _Care to show me how exposed?_

It suddenly hit home for Arthur that he was playing with fire--Eames had a genius for turning seemingly innocuous phrases into something provocative. If he wasn’t careful, this was going to go too far, too fast. Part of him -- one very specific part of him-- wanted that, wanted that now, but another part of him worried that if they unleashed their ids right away, all the tension between them would spill out and evaporate, leaving nothing behind but some embarrassing texts and a couple of crumpled tissues.

  _i could show you the angry texts my mother has sent me, asking what i did to drive you away. She doesn’t trust Aaron and Munazil to keep me safe_

_they’re good blokes, but do they taste your food for you?_

  _thankfully, no_

_then your mother is right, they aren’t doing the job properly. tell her I said I side with her_

Arthur rolled his eyes but a smile was forming on his face. It pained him to admit how much he’d missed the stolen fries and sips of smoothie and the way half his coffee disappeared down Eames’ throat.

_you know she wasn’t that concerned about the food, it’s more the homophobes and fascists that get her down_

_you didn’t answer my question._ Arthur scrolled back to see what question Eames had asked. Oh yeah. Which part of Eames did Arthur miss most. Fuck, that was going to take them directly into territory he wasn’t sure he wanted to tread. Yet. He thought of the myspace picture and wondered how Eames would take it if he typed “your abs.”

Nah. Deflection was a better course.

_which part do you think i miss most?_ Oh fuck. Now that he had pressed send, he realized exactly how damning and...fucking suggestive that sounded. Arthur’s heart rate escalated from regular hammering to jackhammering. 

_oh, my steadfast devotion to flag and country, i imagine_

Arthur breathed a small sigh of relief as he turned on his side, away from the lamplight. Eames could have done a lot with that, but he’d punted. Arthur was grateful.

_how’s your new assignment?_

There, that nicely concealed Arthur’s burning desire to know where Eames was and why he was there. He was just a considerate, concerned employer. Nothing to look at here, folks.

_it’s lonely and cold. The food is terrible. I think they’re trying to poison me._

Arthur laughed out loud. He hadn’t noticed that Eames’ palate was particularly picky, given that he had filched bits and pieces of Arthur’s food in nearly every kind of cuisine known to humankind.

 _so you need a taster?_  Once again, Arthur saw the innuendo just a moment too late--but this time he just thought, fuck it. I can flirt if I want to flirt. I’m the goddamned POTUS.

  _would that it could be you, darling._  
_i reckon you taste brilliant_

  _don’t you mean brilliantly?_

_such specificity, i’d almost think you don’t want me thinking about what you taste like_

Arthur felt like he might have a heart attack. His cock was leaking precome in unprecedented quantities and practically throbbing in his pants. He adjusted himself and then just stripped his clothes off, lying on the covers in his underwear and barely refraining from touching himself.

  _you never actually answered the question, darling_

Fuck. Arthur thought Eames had dropped this line of inquiry. He should have known that Mr. Tenacious wouldn’t drop anything. A flash of Eames’ arms supporting him while Arthur clung to his broad chest, one arm wrapped around the thick column of his neck, the strength and steadfastness of those arms…

  _the white house has no official position on that_

_no worries, i think its safe to assume it’s my work ethic you miss most_

Arthur held his breath - he didn’t trust for a minute that Eames would leave it there twice in one (very naughty, very very bad) almost-sexting conversation. His phone chimed again.

  _either that or my hard cock pressed up against your shapely arse_

An onslaught of desire flooded Arthur’s groin, spreading out in warm waves through his limbs and making him feel lightheaded. He was trembling too much to type any kind of response, not that he could even think of one with his head so muddled.

_did you miss that, darling?_

Fucking hell. Arthur felt panicked at the seconds ticked by and no clever or teasing or charmingly deflecting reply came to mind. The only thing coming to mind was the simple truth.

_i did_

_that wasn’t so hard, was it?_  


_you have no idea_

_would you like to see what you do to me, darling?_

Oh good lord. The picture flashed before his eyes again, the hand disappearing into that tantalizing darkness.

_we shouldn’t_  


_my phone is secure. Your phone is secure._

_yeah okay_  

Arthur had never been so turned on in his life. It was like Eames had found some heretofore unsuspected switch inside him and flipped it, and every cell, every molecule of his body was electrified.

His phone chimed, heralding the arrival of the most eagerly anticipated dick pic in human history. Arthur clicked on the message, barely breathing.

It wasn’t a dick pic.

It was Eames’ neck and chest, and yes there were tattooes, and yes that had been him in the myspace photo (albeit he had gained new ink in the interim). The tattooes were sexy, the neck bitable, the chest chisled and lickable, but the best part, the real hook, was the pink flush spreading across his sternum and up his neck.

 _you’re gorgeous_ , he typed before he could stop himself.

_it’s all for you, mr. president_

_eames, what are we doing?_

  _blowing off some steam_  
_like you said_

Okay, that was… well honestly, that caused an unpleasant sinking sensation in Arthur’s gut, but he tried to focus on the positive. Eames was enjoying a bit of risky sexting, it was not a big deal. They weren’t necessarily going to do anything about it, they just… they were attracted to each other and frankly, who better for Arthur to fool around with than someone so thoroughly vetted and moreover solemnly sworn to serve and protect him?

_if i send you a pic you have to promise to delete it immediately_

_on my honor, sir_

Arthur acted before he could stop himself, taking a picture and sending it within seconds.

_you seem to have omitted yourself from this pic. all i see is a dark spot :(_

Arthur bit his lip as he typed, his dick leaping in anticipation of Eames’ response to his next text.

 _that’s precome on my bedspread_  
_i’ve been leaking since we started texting_

There was no response for a minute. Then two minutes. Arthur watched his phone avidly but as the fifth minute went by he put it down, feeling slightly sick. Had he grossed Eames out? Disappointed him?

His phone chimed and he picked it up, heart pounding.

_very sorry darling, but something came up_

Of course. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time… his phone chimed again.

It was a picture. It was a picture of Eames’ firm and lightly furred stomach, covered in come.

Arthur’s hand went to his cock without his conscious volition and he pulled once and cried out.

 _something came up here too_ , Arthur typed after a moment, feeling wrung out in the best way.


	9. Day 817

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Deinvati for the invaluable input on this chapter!
> 
> Sorry for the long delay, life threw a bunch of lame shit at me.

Arthur dodged the last of his aides and shut the door behind him, locking it (against the advice of Mr. Charles, Aaron and Munazil and the explicit order of Eames) to prevent any chance of an ill-timed walk-in. He and Eames had been texting nearly every night for the last week and God help him, he felt like he was phoning in his duties as the President of the United States but he hadn’t felt this way since… possibly, ever in his life.

Knowing now the usual trajectory of their conversations, Arthur quickly shed his clothes and hopped in bed, his phone already in his hand. He hated that he knew he had been the one to initiate the last three nights in a row, but he did know it and part of him wanted to wait to see if Eames would get in touch first. He stalled by running his hands down his body, feeling arousal build instantly. His libido was seemingly trained to expect a reward and his phone felt as charged with erotic potential as if it were a sex toy.

Arthur didn’t even realize he was drifting off until he jolted to awareness. His phone was ringing and he rolled his eyes in exasperation, his stomach sinking as he realized Eames hadn’t texted him yet. Who the hell was it and what did they want? It was 1:30 in the morning for Christ’s sake.

“Yes?” he answered, annoyed and disappointed.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Oh!” he said, a thrill of recognition surging through him. “Eames. No, no it’s not a bad time.”

“Did I wake you, Darling?” His voice sounded soft and warm, concerned and apologetic. A boyfriend voice.

Arthur cleared his throat and said, “No, I was just… yes, a little bit.”

“Is this alright? I can let you—”

“No! No, this is—just unexpected, is all.” Arthur commanded himself to sound less frantic.

“My location changed and I have a bit more privacy, so I thought-”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. It’s fine. How are you?” _How are you?_ His mind repeated to him in disbelief. _How awkward can you get?_

Eames chuckled, a sound which went straight to Arthur’s groin. “I missed your voice. You sound rather formal, though. Are you all tucked in bed in your Presidential jim-jams, darling?”

Arthur heard the lower-case d in Eames’ voice and wriggled under the covers. “All tucked in, but no jim-jams.” It was absurd for him to blush at a veiled confession of nudity; they’d given each other countless orgasms via sms by now.

“Ahhhh,” sighed Eames, and Arthur could hear fabric rustling over the connection. “No jim-jams here either. That’s one thing taken care of.”

The phrase jim-jams stuck in Arthur’s head and despite his body’s pained eagerness to get the party started, especially in the wake of Eames' revelation of mutual nudity, he was reminded of a question he’d been meaning to ask for several years now.

“So, why the accent?”

“Ah, playing coy, are we?” Eames asked, sounding a little too knowing for Arthur’s tastes. “I’m from merry olde England, Arthur,” he continued, amusement plain in his voice. “We pronounce things differently than you, or hadn’t you noticed on the last four state visits from the Prime Minister?”

“You came here when you were 12, though.”

“Oh ho! Been snooping around have we?” He sounded delighted.

“Well, you know my entire biography, I figured turnabout was fair play.” Arthur tried not to let his embarrassment show in his voice.

“If you’ve done some digging, you might have unearthed that I was a bit of a hellion as a youth?”

“Hm,” Arthur hummed noncommittally. A vision of the Myspace pic floated in his head.

“Turns out that a) young men of a certain persuasion are irresistibly drawn to a British accent, and b) stammering apologies in this accent are received with far more credulity than in this,” and here Eames cleared his throat, then continued, “For real, officer, I was just holding this for a guy!”

That voice, filtered through an American accent, was about a thousand times less reputable and also vaguely disturbing. But still, damn it all, stupidly sexy.

“Why, Eames, you’re a man of many talents,” Arthur found himself purring. “Are you sure your skills wouldn’t be put to better use in the CIA?”

After a slight hitching breath, Eames rejoined, “I would never abandon my Darling like that.”

Arthur smiled helplessly, squirming and then turning over in the bed. “Your work ethic and loyalty are noted, Agent.”

“Are you getting more comfortable?” Eames said, and Arthur realized that his purr was a mere mewl next to the auditory caress that was Eames’ purr. His insides melted and he hummed in assent.

“Good. Why don’t you tell me what you do with me if I were there with you?”

Oh jesus. Arthur had been not only hoping, but essentially expecting to have phone sex at some point. However, in all his vague hopeful fantasies, it had been Eames who’d carried most of the burden of talking. Now he was expected to… what, know what he wanted? And explain it? In words? Aloud, to another person? Who was still waiting?

“I, uh,” he started, then petered out.

“I can wait all night, Arthur, I’m ever so curious.” Eames sounded smug, but more importantly he sounded dangerously aroused, and that went straight to Arthur’s cock, which twitched against his belly. “Shall I...hmmm… yes, that’s better, shall I get more comfortable and let you know what I think you might want?”

“I thought you were already naked,” Arthur’s brain managed to string some words together, he was proud of it.

“Oh, yes, I was already naked, but now I have my cock in my hand.” He sighed, took a deep breath. “Nnnngh, that’s lovely, Arthur did you know that you aren’t the only one with a leaking problem?”

“Is it a problem?” Arthur’s voice was graveled, his breath coming faster. “I-” he broke off to put his own hand on his own—yes—leaking cock. “I find it pretty sexy.”

Eames laughed, a low insinuating thing. “Are you wet, darling? I wish you could feel how my cock longs for you. Do you want it in your mouth or in your hand?”

“In my ass,” Arthur said without thinking, and the groan that came from Eames as a result had Arthur’s cock dribbling even more precome. He slid his hand up and down his shaft, slicking it a bit, panting into the receiver.

“You want it in your arse, yes, I thought you might. Do you remember when I had my hard cock pressed against you? Do you think about that?”

Arthur rolled his eyes but said, “Yes,” leaving off the reminder that Eames referred to that every time they talked these days. It was kind of hot, how hung up on it he seemed to be.

“I can’t get it out of my head, Arthur. Fuck,” he said, breath gusting out of him. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have walked away from you. Your arse... “ he broke off and Arthur could hear the slapping of flesh on flesh. His own hand sped up as well.

“Yes?” Arthur murmured. “You were saying about my ass?”

“I’m fairly certain your arse is what got you elected.”

Arthur laughed out loud, which was not what he was expecting during phone sex, but there it was—nothing about Eames was as expected.

“I know it’s why I voted for you, at any rate. God, what I wouldn’t give to put my hands on it, sir,” and he trailed off again, breaths echoing in Arthur’s ear.

“What if I ordered you to put your hands on my ass?” Arthur said, feeling quite wild with abandon.

“Yes,” Eames breathed, and again Arthur could hear his hand jacking his cock, his absolutely lovely (Arthur was sure) cock. “Yes, order me.”

“What’s the magic word, Agent?” Arthur stilled his hand to focus on the other sensations this was causing. It would figure that this was how he discovered he had a kink for ordering people around. The rest of his presidency would be a minefield of awkward erections.

“Please,” Eames said, low and needy. “Please, tell me how to touch you.”

“Put your hands on my ass.”

“Fuck, yes. It’s going to be so smooth, so firm, god—” Eames broke off on a low moan.

“S-spread my cheeks,” Arthur said, his face burning. He arched up off the bed, thrusting hard into his hand as the image crystallized in his head. Eames large hands pulling his asscheeks apart, exposing his hole.

“I’m going to lick your hole, would you like that?”

“Fuck!” Arthur cried out, come spurting onto the sheets and his hand.

“That’s a yes, then,” Eames growled, and started panting furiously into the phone. Within seconds, he was moaning and sighing and Arthur drank in the sounds, wishing like hell he could see what Eames looked like in the aftermath of an orgasm.

“Take a picture of yourself,” he said raggedly, too spent to prevent himself from seeking what he wanted.

He could hear the smile in Eames’ voice. “Is that an order, sir?”

“Yes,” he said, reveling in this freedom.

A moment later, his phone chimed and he clicked on the message to see a picture of Eames’ face, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, his lips parted as if for a kiss. He looked… Arthur’s eyelids fluttered as his stomach swooped. He looked completely… there were no words for what he looked like. Or, well. There were, but Arthur wasn’t able to voice them, not even in his head.

“Well? I’m not one to fish for compliments but you’ve got me worried here.”

“You look...incredible. I-I want—I wish I could touch you.”

“Nnngghhh, likewise, darling,” Eames said, and how he managed to sound salacious and tender all at once was a mystery to Arthur. “I must ring off now but I’ll try to call again soon.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said reluctantly. “I’ve got to be up at 5:00. Shit, that’s like three hours from now.”

“Get some sleep, love.”

“Don’t you mean ‘darling’?”

“I meant what I said,” he said lightly, and then the line went silent.

Arthur stared at the ceiling, comprehending for the first time exactly how deeply in trouble he was.


	10. Day 937

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Deinvati for the troubleshooting! You're the best!

Arthur shifted restlessly on the gingham-checked sofa and glared at his phone, which after three months of silence from Eames, had started to feel like his personal enemy. Every single time it rang, he felt a wild burst of hope in his chest, and every time he answered, he felt his heart breaking further. He relived his last conversation with Eames over and over, searching it for any clue that Eames’ orientation towards him had shifted. In a sense, Arthur would have preferred that Eames had simply decided he wasn’t that attached to Arthur, rather than dwell on other, even more horrific, probabilities.

He turned the tv off in disgust and went to look out the window at the view, which was quite lovely. Ariadne had lobbied hard to send him to Southeast Asia for his enforced vacation, but he’d argued her into letting him follow the precedent of Clinton and Obama and shack up on Martha’s Vineyard. And while the island was certainly beautiful and he was almost— _almost_ —glad that Ariadne and his other advisors had given him practically no choice in taking this break, he still knew that it was ultimately going to be pointless.

Eames had called him faithfully every other night for a month after that first time, and they had… oh, they had… what _hadn’t_ they done? Arthur’d had to change the batteries in his vibrator twice. Granted, the first time was because he’d accidentally left it on all night, and Ariadne hadn’t let him live down the kerfuffle that had occurred when Nash, a new agent, had panicked and called in the bomb squad to deal with the mysterious buzzing sound in the master bedroom. 

The second time, though… Arthur couldn’t help but let himself drift off in recollection of it.  


He’d fingered himself open at Eames’ request—more accurate to say that Eames had begged him, actually—and he'd told Eames to jerk himself off in time with the noise of the vibrator fucking in and out of him so they could imagine it was Eames’ cock slamming home and making Arthur moan. The pleasure ramped up so quickly that Arthur had had to yank it out to stop himself from coming too soon, and Eames had stopped touching himself too, without even being told. They’d wound up edging like that for almost an hour and when Arthur finally let them both come, the sound of Eames’ strangled shout had sent Arthur’s jizz practically up to the ceiling. 

That month had been the most erotically fulfilling time of Arthur’s 38 years on the planet, and they hadn’t done so much as kiss yet. But Arthur hadn’t heard Eames’ voice since May 19th, and he… he would freely admit he was not handling it well. Ariadne’s assessment of “disastrously,” he felt, was unkind and also unfair. But then, she just thought that they were having phone sex. 

When it had become, well. A lot more than that. 

_”What do we do when you come back to the States?”_

_“I should have thought that was obvious, darling. We do everything we’ve been describing to each other.”_

_“We… nnnngh god, you know I want that, but…” Arthur trailed off, not wanting to voice yet again all his trepidation, not wanting Eames to have to confront how conflicted he was._

_“Shhh, relax. Don’t worry about it now. It will all sort itself out, love.”_

_“I want to believe that, Eames, but you have to know what a scandal this could be. It could destroy—”_

_"I will not let that happen to you."_

_"Yeah, but you can't—"_

_"Arthur. Darling. You have to know who picked your codename, right?"_

_Arthur was silent for a long moment, trying to parse the meaning of this. Finally, he managed to say, “Since the transition?”_

_“Longer.”_

_“Since when?” His heart was liable to beat right out of his chest._

_Eames laughed, and it sounded rueful and painfully fond. “Since your first term as a state senator.”_

_“That was… Jesus, Eames—that was more than a decade ago.” Arthur felt faint as his entire internal landscape shifted._

_“So you know I’m good at long-range planning.”_

_Arthur laughed, a mix of joy and disbelief warring in his chest. He abruptly sobered as the stifling reality of their situation bled through again._

_“I can’t promise anything. I would—but I can’t.”_

_“I know, love. I can wait for longer. I just really, really don’t want to.”_

And after that, total silence. The first week had been the hardest. Arthur convinced himself that his inability to give a promise had been the last straw, that Eames had given up on him. By the second week, he’d talked himself around to a tentative belief that, given Eames had evidently been carrying a torch for him since he was a weedy little state senator in the Illinois Legislature, probably he wouldn’t be so easily put off. 

Finally, after a month of no word from Eames, Arthur had worked himself up to inquiring obliquely about Eames’ assignment and discovered that he had been packed off to Russia. He knew there was much more to it than that, but Mr. Charles (which was so obviously an alias that Arthur wanted to cringe- shouldn’t the Director of the Secret Service realize how easy it is to find out that his real name is Dom Cobb? On the other hand, Arthur supposed that if his name were ‘Dom Cobb,’ he might come up with an alias too. Sounded like a kinky vegetable) had only given Arthur the bare minimum of detail. Naturally, he could find out more if he pressed, but Arthur couldn’t shake his paranoia of anyone figuring out that the persistent Twitter rumors about President Darling and his special Agent contained more than a whisper of truth.

Arthur has always been fairly transparent to himself and to others. His clear, straightforward demeanor has always made him instantly trustworthy, and it was a huge factor in his winning over the electorate in spite of his sexuality. He’d always prided himself on this quality, thinking that it signaled some kind of inner fortitude. Sadly, it turned out that he was just not very good at repression. The stress of suppressing his urgent need to know just what Eames had been sent to Russia to accomplish (and more importantly, why he had gone incommunicado so suddenly and whether he was in harms' way) had turned him into somewhat of a, what had Ariadne called him? “An unhinged tyrant,” right, oh and one time, “an asshat douchenozzle who really needs to get a grip on himself.” 

He’d technically (reluctantly) agreed to the vacation but his agreement had been a mere formality as he’d been marched on the puddlejumper practically at gunpoint by his entire staff. 

Now he’d been here nearly a week and was going quite stir crazy. Every morning Ariadne came by to forcibly remove his laptop and lay out the agenda for his supposedly relaxing beach get away, which would be followed by a tour of some light house and then a cozy cafe and then another trip to the beach and Christ, he hadn't imagined a vacation could be so exhausting. 

There was a knock on his door. Arthur sighed and got up. It was undoubtedly that idiot Nash, wanting to pointlessly search the room yet again. Or it was Ariadne, with yet another goddamned lighthouse that she thought he ought to see.

“I’m coming, but fair warning, there is no way in hell I’m going on even one more tour of a fucking lighthouse, no matter how pretty it is,” he called out. 

But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Nash. Or Ariadne.

“And here I was, hoping to get you up to Gay Head,” Eames said, voice rough and soft and everything, everything Arthur wanted to hear. He looked grizzled and exhausted and Arthur couldn’t believe how beautiful he was. “May I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently there is a lighthouse named Gay Head on Martha's Vineyard. The things we learn while writing fic!
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_Head_Light


	11. Day 937, part 2

Arthur stood stock still. He felt frozen, like he was caught in a tractor beam; he couldn't move and he couldn’t look away from Eames’ lovely, tired grey eyes. He’d thought… Christ, he’d thought there had been a good chance that… He pushed the horrible thought away with a vengeance and took a step towards Eames. 

Only to hear the grating, nasal voice of Nash speaking rapid-fire into his headset as he barreled towards the doorway where Eames stood, reaching out to take Arthur’s hand. 

“Agent Eames!” he barked, sounding like a yapping little dog trying to herd a much larger, much more dangerous one, his hand falling on Eames’ shoulder and earning him a disbelieving eyeroll as Eames brushed it off. “I have to escort you to Mr. Charles for a debriefing about the Russian plot,” he said, and then trailed off sheepishly as he registered Arthur’s presence with a wince. Arthur frowned at him. “Mr. President, I, uh-” 

Arthur ignored him as his gaze snapped to Eames again. 

“I was your first stop?” 

Eames just looked at him and inclined his head, his yearning gaze roving all over Arthur’s face and body, causing a tidal wave of heat to supersede both the euphoric relief and vast irritation that flooded him. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. President, sir, but Mr. Charles--” Nash tried again.

“Unhand Agent Eames, Nash, or I’ll have you court martialed.” 

“I, uh, we’re not military, sir, we’re law enforcement and Mr. Charles insisted, uh, it’s a clearance thing--” Nash babbled inanely as he took ahold of Eames’ forearm, tugging on it to no avail. Eames may as well have been made of stone for all that he seemed to notice the other agent.

“Agent Nash, I assure you, I have been 100% briefed about the entire situation,” Arthur lied through his teeth as he squared his shoulders and let his fiercest scowl take over his features. “I strongly suggest you obey a direct order from the Commander in Chief, ie: ME.”

Nash blanched and Arthur physically removed his hand from Eames’ arm. “It is my prerogative to debrief an agent myself. You are dismissed.” 

With a dazed nod, Nash fled the scene with his metaphorical tail between his absurdly lanky legs. 

Arthur’s hand had not left Eames’ arm and his grip tightened down on it, pulling Eames all the way into the room and slamming the door shut behind him. 

“What is all this about a Russian plot?” he demanded, the heat in his body warring with his sudden awareness of how worried he’d been, how manic with suppressed anxiety.

“Shhhhh,” Eames said, and his tractor-beam gaze was on Arthur again, magnetic and hot, melting away everything but his physical presence. His presence, in this room. This room, with no other people in it. They were alone.

They were alone, and they weren’t in the White House. 

And Eames was alive.

He was alive, and standing less than three feet away. Looking like he’d moved heaven and earth to get here, having gone through hell to do it. He was staring at Arthur like a starving man, quite clearly waiting for him to make the first move.

Without quite deciding to, Arthur found himself stepping up to Eames until only a few scant inches separated them. All he could see was that mouth, those lips, the faintest curling smile lifting the corner--that mouth, coming closer, and Arthur’s eyes slid shut in anticipation. 

But instead of descending on his lips, he felt a warmth against his neck, hair brushing his cheek as Eames ran his nose along the length of Arthur’s neck, gathering him close with one broad hand and inhaling the scent of him behind his ear. Arthur gasped, and melted against him.

Then they were kissing, and all was right with the world. Everything was and had always been good, perfect, complete. Arthur’s lips pressed against the lips he’d dreamt about every night for months, the mouth that uttered the most scandalous, filthy things into his ear late at night, pulling fantasies out of thin air and orgasms out of Arthur’s body. And now they were here, soft and warm and moving against his own, opening up and the closing over his own, a tongue seeking to lick its way inside him. The moment telescoped into an endless moment of breath and sensation, until Arthur couldn’t have said exactly how long they stood there, tasting each other.

“Fuck,” he murmured as he pulled back a fraction, and the combined sound and movement seemed to spur Eames back into action. With the arm wrapped around Arthur’s waist, Eames pulled him firmly up against the bulk of his torso, while his other arm slid around to allow his fingers to first grope Arthur’s ass and then dip into the waistband of his linen shorts. 

“I--I think we shouldn’t-” Arthur tried to formulate some kind of objection, given that even while this wasn’t the seat of government, there were a hell of a lot of employees around, but his dick didn’t want to give up enough blood supply to let his mouth or brain function. 

“Where’s the bedroom?” Eames asked, then dove back in for another brain-melting, soul-searching kiss before Arthur could even respond. He found himself hustled and manhandled through a door and pressed against a random piece of colonial-style furniture, Eames’ hard cock pushing against him through the fabric of their pants. Arthur groaned and tried one last time to protest, not remotely sure why he was bothering, since this was the culmination of years’ worth of fantasies. Damn his principles, damn them all to hell. Still…

“Ariadne’s probably going to…” he slurred as Eames’ mouth latched onto the corded muscle of his neck. 

Eames pulled out a gun and put in on the dresser, lifting his mouth away from where he was working on an enormous hickey and said, “If anyone walks in here, I will shoot them before they make it back to the door, much less run to the press.” Then he pushed Arthur down on the bed and began to methodically strip off his clothes.

Arthur watched him, feeling like he was being hypnotized, the ink unveiled inch by inch telling a story of a man with many sides, with so much depth and complexity that Arthur knew he’d never be bored, never tire of hearing his stories, his thoughts, his desires. 

And then Eames, fully naked, his body fulfilling every promise made by the way his clothes strained at the seams to contain his breadth and strength, climbed on top of him where he lay, practically vibrating with desire on the bed.

“Where do you want me, Mr. President?” he purred, low and rough. All at once, the primal force of the Commander in Chief rose up within Arthur. He reached up, finally getting his hands on those naked, painted biceps and smoothed his way up to those shoulders, savoring every dip and swell and the marvelous thickness under his fingers. These arms that have bracketed him, carried him, saved him, time and again. 

It was time for Arthur to be the one that saved them, saved them from this stupid situation in which they couldn’t have what they both so clearly wanted, so clearly needed. With a low growl, he pushed Eames onto his back and thought of all the things they’ve talked about doing to each other. So many things. 

But first, he needed to get ready. 

Arthur disentangled himself from Eames’ arms, ignoring for the moment how they reached out for him, and the soft sound of protest from his lips. He kept his eyes on Eames’ face as he rose from the bed, a hot flush spreading over his face. It had been ages since he’d done this and his stomach squirmed with nervous anticipation. Eames’ avid look grounded him, though. He knew there was nothing he could to accidentally drive him away. It was about more than their mere physical forms at this point.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling at first but then more deliberately as he noticed how riveted Eames was as each button slipped free, revealing Arthur’s smooth and hairless chest, his chest that rose and fell with each stuttering breath. Finally it hung loose from his shoulders and he let it fall the floor. He could come from the look on Eames’ face. 

“May I help, sir?” Eames murmured after a long moment. He flipped onto his stomach and stretched across the bed to reach for the waistband of Arthur’s shorts. Arthur nodded and watched those deft, strong hands deal with the button and zip, smoothing the fabric down his thighs until he was able to step out of them, clad only in his tight grey briefs. He was unsurprised to see a dark, wet spot there, but cried out in shocked pleasure as Eames put his mouth over it, tonguing and sucking on the fabric and the head.

Arthur’s hips bucked as he let out a long, low moan, and in response Eames growled, rising up on his knees and shoving the underwear down, then dragging Arthur bodily onto the bed.

“Enough fucking around now, darling,” he said, and Arthur’s eyelids fluttered. “On your stomach, arse up. Yes, lovely, just like that.”

Arthur, from his new position, couldn’t see what Eames was doing but the feel of those hands on his ass, warm and possessive, was both reassuring and incendiary. He was grasping and massaging the soft meat of Arthur’s cheeks, rubbing them in circles and then sinking his fingers in, little appreciative grunts escaping him. Then Eames spread his cheeks apart and Arthur felt warm air over his hole and he knew what was coming next. 

_I’m going to lick your hole, would you like that?_

Arthur could still hear him saying those words over the phone, the first time they’d had phone sex. He’d jacked off to them a million times over. And now…

“God, darling, your arse is just,” Eames breathed out and then his tongue was probing Arthur’s hole, tiny teasing licks, just like Eames had promised all those months ago. It was torture.

It was heaven.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think of the mess his cock was already making on the bedspread. Instinctively his hips reared back for more, more sensation, more pressure. But Eames was already there, waggling his tongue further in, darting deeper and deeper until he had it shoved all the way inside. 

“Fuck, Eames, oh fucking… nnnnghh yessss,” Arthur babbled helplessly. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, not with anyone. 

“I’m just getting started, pet,” Eames said, and went back to tonguing and frenching his ass until Arthur was barely coherent. He lost a bit of time under the onslaught of pleasure but came back to himself as a finger breached him, crooking up and making him shout.

“Oh god, I’m gonna come,” he whined, unable to care how pitiful he sounded.

“No worries, love,” Eames said, his voice thick with lust and fondness. “I need to take a break to locate your supplies. Any hints?” 

Arthur felt him backing away and shifting his weight off the bed. He turned and lay on his side, head cradled under one arm to look up at Eames as he stood by the bedside, looking around. 

He looked like a god, standing there, unselfconsciously aroused, his gorgeous body on display and cock huge and hard. Arthur gulped a bit, wondering whether he was quite ready. “It’s, uh, under the bed,” he said, feeling unaccountably shy. Eames’ gaze raked over him where he lay, his leaking cock lying against his belly and jerking under the scrutiny. 

“You look so beautiful, spread out for me, darling,” he said, then crouched down and rummaged around under the bed. When he came up, he tossed the lube on the bed along with Arthur’s vibrator, which suddenly began humming. Panicked, he threw himself on top of it as if it were a grenade.

Eames burst out laughing. “I think I’m a little insulted that you’re so desperate for your robot dick.” 

Arthur fumbled with the thing until it shut off, gave it a firm glare and tossed it across the room. “Trust me, you don’t want to know why I had to shut it off immediately. In a word--Nash.” 

Eames laughed harder, then climbed back on the bed and took the lube in hand. “I think I like this view better,” he said, gaze fond and predatory at the same time. “I can see your lovely face, gauge whether I’m performing my duties with sufficient, er, patriotic enthusiasm.” He hiked Arthur’s knees up and spread his legs, then put two lubed fingers up to Arthur’s wet hole and slid the tips in, eyes avidly searching for a reaction.

Sadly, Arthur couldn’t force his eyes to remain open, the intensity of the sensations combined with the vision of Eames looming above him was too much. He was afraid he was about to come. The fingers didn’t seem to care that he was overwhelmed, though-- they writhed and searched and Arthur writhed right along with them, squirming restlessly on the sheets. 

“You’re so wet,” Eames rumbled, the fingers of his other trailing through the pool of precome on Arthur’s belly. “When you showed me that picture, that stain on your bed, nnnngh God, darling,” Eames trailed off, but he shoved another finger in and crooked them just so, and Arthur’s back arched off the bed as he shouted and moaned.

“Shhhh, we wouldn’t want Nash sniffing around, would we?” Eames withdrew his hand again and Arthur whined pathetically, heedless of whether Nash or any other agent was listening in on the undoubtedly security-mic’d room. If they wanted to listen, they’d get an earful. Served them right, he thought nonsensically.

Then suddenly, Eames was leaning over him, between Arthur’s legs, caging him in. His prick nudged at Arthur’s now-loose hole as his lips descended on Arthur’s mouth. They made out for long moments, just nibbling and sucking each others lips while Eames gently teased Arthur, bumping and grinding and then, at long last, getting a hand on his cock to angle it properly. The head slipped in, causing Arthur to gasp, his eyes flying open to meet Eames’. 

“May I fuck you, Mr. President?” Eames asked sweetly, slyly, and as soon as Arthur opened his mouth to say yes, he thrust his tongue in his mouth and his cock plunged all the way in. Arthur moaned into Eames’ mouth and scrabbled at his back and broad shoulders, letting his clutching hands rake a message of complete abandon over Eames’ skin. 

Nothing nothing nothing had ever felt like this, Eames belonged inside him forever, it was a necessity now, he’d simply have to stay here. The thought that he might almost have lost him wasn’t to be borne and he certainly wasn’t ever going to risk it again. No matter what. 

Eames pulled out and pushed in again, thighs shuddering already. They were silent now, nothing in the air but panting and soft, sharp groans of ecstasy as Eames worked Arthur into a frenzy. Sweat dripped off him and onto Arthur’s torso and he would have licked it up if he could. Then the pace changed from deliberate to punishing, Eames hiking Arthur’s ankles over his shoulders and pounding into him. 

Arthur took Eames into him, over and over, as hard and deep as he could, and Eames’ eyes never left his, until their climaxes took over and rocked them both into momentary oblivion.

\---

Arthur realized that he must have drifted off, because he came to with the soft sussuration of Eames’ voice rumbling in his ear. “...was terrified I’d never see you again, couldn’t get the thought out of my head some days.”

“Me too,” Arthur said sleepily, turning towards him and nuzzling into in his neck, reveling in the scent there. Eames’ scent, which he’d grown so used to over the last few years, but had to reconstruct from memory for the last half a year. 

They dozed again, and when Arthur woke up this time, the light had shifted and the covers had been pulled up over him.

“So, you were on a covert mission that was kept secret from the Commander in Chief?”

 

Eames hummed a little, clearly stalling. “I have never thought about you as the commander in chief,” he said, a warm smile in his voice. Arthur shifted and pulled back from him so he could see his face. “That’s rather hot, actually. But to answer your question, it wasn’t kept secret from you. You simply weren’t told. If you’d asked about it, all details of course would have been relayed.”

“So if I had simply asked, ‘Mr. Charles, is Eames on a secret mission and if so, what is the nature of that mission,” he would have told me.” Arthur frowns at him, trying to summon up the mental power to analyze the likelihood that Eames was blowing smoke up his ass.

“Absolutely.” Eames’s gaze didn’t quite meet his. Time to play his cards. 

“And if I asked Mr. Charles what is the nature of the blackmail that Eames has on you, he would tell me that, too?

Eames blanched. 

“Ah, so you do have blackmail on him.” Arthur smiled, but tried not to seem too proud of himself. 

Eames regarded him thoughtfully, stroking his lower lip. “You might want to investigate a program called ‘dreamshare’.”

“Hm, sounds made up,” Arthur murmured, then gave in and did what he’d been wanting to do for minutes and an eternity; he kissed Eames, slow and deep, and when the kiss started to heat up, he felt around for his prick. “Mmmm, you’re almost ready for round two,” he began, only to be interrupted by an extremely loud, cartoonish throat clearing sound.

“I’m glad you’re finally enjoying your vacation, Arthur, but enough’s enough,” came Ariadne’s voice through the door, sounding amused and exasperated. “Eames has to go see Mr. Charles. Now.”

“Roger that,” Eames said, sparing Arthur the embarrassment of talking to Ariadne while naked and covered in come. He pressed a lingering kiss to Arthur’s forehead and got out of bed, dressing so quickly Arthur wasn’t even able to give his ass a parting ogle. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, about to leave, then came back over to the bed to deliver one more kiss, which turned into a sloppy kiss, which turned into another hickey, and then some more throat clearing emanated from behind the door. Eames pulled back and smiled beatifically, then winked and walked out of the room. There was a muffled conversation that Arthur tried his best not to catch any of, and then footsteps receded down the hall. 

He sighed, falling back on the bed in a dazed, happy state unlike anything he’d experienced before. It was cut short by a sharp rap on the door and he shot up, clutching the sheet to his chest just in time for Ariadne to get fed up and storm in.

“Rules, Arthur. We need rules for this.” She stared him down and he felt as if the sheet wasn’t even there. Not in a sexy way. In a “I see straight through you down into your soul and you are NOT going to get impeached on my watch” kind of way. 

“I’m way ahead of you, Ari,” he said, which wasn’t strictly true, but she seemed to buy it. She nodded curtly, a smile peeking out and swiftly crushed before she said, “I’m glad to see you so happy. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. No more Eames today though, hm?” And with that, she was out the door. 

Bliss thrummed through his body and he wanted to just lie in this bed forever and relive the past few hours. But thoughts and plans churned through his head, muddying his satisfaction with worry. There must be a way they could do this and not get caught.

There had to be.


	12. Day 941

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter was co-written by the enormously talented and kind Deinvati, who lost a bet, LOL. And when I say "co-written," what I really mean is that if she hadn't taken the reins (and done a FAR better job than I could have with the Situation Room scene), this chapter would not exist and President Levine-codename-Darling would not be on the way to the happy ending he and Agent Eames deserve.

Arthur walked into the Situation Room in his new Gucci suit and the tie he hadn’t worn in eight months, since the day Eames had been “reassigned”--the one with the letter “E” subtly woven into the pattern. 

He looked around at the faces at the table, and instead of an angry tornado of confusion and sexual frustration in his chest, he felt calm, a solid core radiating outward. He felt like he had the day he’d gotten elected—as though anything was possible, and everything was in his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to this last-minute meeting. I appreciate that. What I don’t appreciate,” he said, tapping a file folder on the table, “is being kept in the dark on international matters concerning my personal safety.”

There were a few averted eyes and a few confused ones and Arthur took note of the way Ari’s face remained carefully blank.

“I was brought up to date,” Arthur said, indicating the file he’d gotten from Nash, “but why don’t we go over the basics so we’re all on the same page. Mr… Charles?”

Arthur made sure to hold Cobb’s eye as he hesitated on his name and he watched the other man swallow before addressing the room.

“Approximately nine months ago,” Cobb said, his voice wavering only a tiny bit, “our office, through connections made in our work with the Joint Terrorism Task Force, received word of a rumor that a few select figures in the Russian government were unhappy with the current White House administration and were attempting to hatch plans to bring it down.”

“You mean they wanted to assassinate me because I’m gay,” Arthur stated simply without breaking eye contact.

Cobb cleared his throat. “That’s correct, sir. Well, and also Jewish.”

“Why don’t we just say what we mean in this meeting. It’ll make things go a lot faster.”

“Yes, sir.” Cobb nodded, looking mildly chagrined. He continued, “We didn’t have solid proof, and because this wasn’t the official Russian government making the claims, the decision was made to stage an unofficial undercover mission to root out the conspiracy, stop the coup, and hopefully avoid an outright war, while at the same time protecting the President’s life.”

There was a long, unbroken silence in the wake of this sentence as everyone absorbed that.

“Who decided?” Arthur asked, leaning over the table with one hand on the file folder in front of him.

“Beg pardon?”

“You said ‘the decision was made to stage the mission.’ I want to know who made that decision.”

“Ah, that was me. Sir. I made that call to insure—”

“And you made that call without knowledge of the CIA, FBI, or even my own personal knowledge, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“And if the mission had gone horribly wrong?”

Cobb’s face went hard and he squinted at Arthur. “Then it would not have been linked to the CIA, FBI, or you yourself, sir” 

Arthur wasn’t about to let him off so easily. This guy thought he’d be cowed by a squint? “And the operative?”

“The, er, operative would have been sacrificed but,” and now Cobb looked sheepish again, as he should, “uh, unless they shaved his face, he wouldn’t have been traced back to the administration. He’s exceptional in his abilities to create another identity.”

Arthur tried to calm the river of molten lava running through him. It made a certain amount of sense, but it was unprecedented, and if Eames had been in danger, there would have been nothing, _nothing_ he, even as the god damned president, could have done about it.

He cleared his throat and steepled his fingers over the top of the file. “Mr Cobb… may I call you Mr Cobb?” At Cobb’s reluctant nod he continued, “Mr Cobb, there are a lot of things you just said that we as an administration need to address, but I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I will not have, not ever again, a mission run without my knowledge solely for the purpose of allowing me to say I didn’t know about it. You will immediately inform me of any information related to international diplomacy and international plans for aggression that comes into your hands, and we will run these things through the proper channels. _Always._ Do I make myself clear?”

Cobb blanched and looked very much like he did not want to agree.

“I don’t care how it’s been done in the past,” Arthur continued, addressing the whole room now, “this administration will operate on the right side of the law. If that puts me personally in greater danger, so be it. If that puts the Russian government in danger, that is _literally our job_ to make the world a better place, through communication and negotiation. I will. Not. Have it.”

Finally, Cobb gave a sharp nod and Arthur relaxed in his chair. “Now, Mr Cobb, if you would, please take us through what we’ve learned.”

He sat back and listened while Cobb went over the unofficial mission, the people they’d confirmed were plotting behind the backs of their government, and the unnamed undercover operative who’d, unfortunately, been forced to take them out.

_”I wasn’t bloody going to let them roam around free, now was I, darling? After they’d threatened to hurt you?”_ Eames had breathed into his ear when Arthur was trying to ask him about the file Nash had finally given up. Arthur wasn’t going to think too hard about how Eames’ protectiveness caused his already-straining cock to throb and twitch, and how he’d let Eames push him up against the door and kiss him breathless.

Technically it had been the next morning when he’d wrestled Eames back into his bed, so he hadn’t exactly violated Ariadne’s decree of “no more Eames today.” But as Arthur had sunk to his knees to worship at the altar of Eames’ cock, he knew they were on borrowed time.

“Eames,” he’d said later, wrapped in those glorious arms and sleepy enough to wish, for one second, he wasn’t the president. “We need to have rules.”

“Should be easy, pet,” Eames had murmured into his hair. “I’ll follow any rule you put down.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” Arthur had confessed to Eames’ chest hair, and Eames had chuckled.

“We’ll be careful,” he promised.

Arthur sighed. “No, we won’t.”

Eames had looked sated, sleepy, and confused when Arthur pulled back to look at his face, and Arthur wanted to kiss his forehead wrinkles forever.

“We can’t do this once we get to the White House. We can’t do any of this.”

“Any of it?” Eames had said, looking stricken.

“Well,” Arthur’d said, and paused, trying to think if there were anything they could have without courting disaster of twelve different types. “We could probably continue the phone calls, if you’re willing and not on duty. But if we add any more fuel to the Twitter rumor fire, I don’t know what will happen. Russia might not be the end of it. I can’t… we can’t risk that.” He knew he was scowling, but it was only so his chin didn't start trembling.

Eames hadn’t said anything, just got a look on his face Arthur couldn’t read, and then kissed him, long and slow, like they had all the time in the world. He’d kept Arthur in bed until Arthur absolutely had to get up and dress so that Ariadne wouldn’t have an excuse to walk in on them. When Arthur had snuck out to endure one more day of his enforced vacation, Eames had been asleep in his bed, gloriously naked beneath the obscene thread count sheets, his hair sticking up everywhere and the ghost of a very long mission hanging beneath his eyes. Arthur had demanded he not be disturbed.

 

Seventy-two hours later, Arthur tried to remember how fond and hopeful he’d been, looking at the face of his lover, safely returned from his extra-legal, insanely dangerous mission. They hadn't been able to find any time alone since, and it had been agonizing. It almost--almost--made him regret their stolen hours of intimacy.

Sometimes, getting what you want only makes it worse to go back to privation. 

After the meeting in the Situation Room, as they walked down the hallway to the elevator, Eames brushed his hand against Arthur’s, the crooked pinky intertwining with his own for a fleeting moment that sent electricity flooding through Arthur’s limbs. When he looked over, Eames gave him a look that stripped him down to his bare skin, then hung behind to bring up the rear. Arthur’s body felt like an engine that had just been revved--hot, shuddering, ready for someone to shift it out of park and put the pedal to the metal. But there was no outlet for it. He had to remain in neutral, burning up inside.

He manufactured an excuse to disappear into the Presidential study and sat there, vibrating with longing, while he reviewed his options. 

Option 1: forbid Eames to look at him in public. That wasn’t going to work, since Eames was charged with monitoring his safety at all times. Option 2: forbid himself from looking at Eames in public. Also not possible. Eames’ hulking presence was never more than five feet away and moreover was vitally reassuring to Arthur in the wake of his extended absence. Option 3: Figure out what dreamshare was without Eames’ help and blackmail Cobb to transfer Eames to the financial crimes division of the Service. But as with Option 2, Arthur couldn’t conceive of being separated from Eames now that they’d been reunited. It would be like a living death. Not to mention he had no clue where to start on the dreamshare thing, whatever the fuck that was.

It looked like the only real option was to have Eames perpetually in his line of sight, within arms’ reach, but untouchable for the next… oh god, how long? Www. timeanddate.com helpfully informed him that he had to somehow get through one year, four months and 29 days before he could touch Eames again.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the pajamas are a thing? http://www.loriferber.com/ojamas-pajamas-brand-new.html
> 
> "Ojamas"- lmao, thank you, Deinvati for your keen eyes and googlin' skillz!
> 
>  
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at [oceaxereturns](%E2%80%9Coceaxereturns.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)!


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